Chapter Nineteen
A s far as Solomon could tell, they all believed he meant it, even Richards, who stood by the door, his lip curled at this proof of how the gentry regarded themselves as above the law. And Constance had played her part well, voicing derision and letting him brush it off to be all the more convincing.
No one lingered over the port. Solomon only entered the drawing room to bid everyone goodnight and announce that he would be in the library in five minutes. He then went upstairs to splash water on his face and fetch a blanket—and a small, accurate pistol—which he took with him to the library.
He hoped to meet Constance on the way, just to be sure she would take especial care around Bolton—in fact, around both Boltons if he was right about Alice being in league with Thomas, at least after the event in covering up the crime.
Deliberately, he turned up the lamps, left the curtains open, and chose a book to read before he settled in one of the armchairs and prepared for a long night.
The drawing room clock chimed the eleventh hour.
Solomon fully expected Bolton to come, although not until much later. It was, he reflected, a nice touch to have announced he would have nothing to do with the proposed scheme. It fitted the character Bolton portrayed, of slightly prissy, inflexible accountant who thought all of life was as disciplined as numbers. But the worm had turned.
He had probably known he could not kill Winsom face to face. He could only do it in the dark, from behind. And whatever nonsense had been spouted during dinner, Solomon had no intention of allowing the murderer to escape the law.
He tried to concentrate on his book, but thoughts of Constance distracted him. Worse, he didn’t mind. He liked thinking of her, liked the visions of her that danced behind his eyes. She had really feared the dog would harm him.
He was not used to people caring.
The clock struck midnight.
Solomon rose and turned down the lamps, leaving only the one beside him shining brightly. Moonlight streamed palely through the windows, not as strong as the night of the murder, but enough to make out any figure approaching the window or entering by the door.
He loosened his necktie, then sat back down and spread the blanket across his knees. Taking the pistol from his pocket, he laid it in his lap and placed his book over it to hide it. All he had to do now was stay awake. Which, normally, was easy.
Normally.
*
As they had agreed, Constance retired to her bedchamber when everyone else went to theirs. Mrs. Winsom tottered off first, accompanied by Miriam, who did not return to the drawing room. No one discussed Solomon’s proposal, but everyone seemed to be thinking about it, for they were mostly silent, gazing at their hands or into the empty fireplace.
Everyone else went upstairs together, perhaps to prove they were not sloping off to the library to confess. As they said polite goodnights, Constance wondered if in just a couple of hours, they would really know the identity of Walter Winsom’s killer.
On reaching her own room, she did not undress, but stood gazing out at the moonlight for several minutes.
Somewhere, it still grieved her that she would never know now if that flawed, vital, charismatic man was her father. Whatever he had done, taking his life was not the answer. She swallowed foolish tears and turned back to face the room. As planned, she placed the upright chair as close to the door as she could without impeding its opening. Then she wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and made herself comfortable enough in the chair not to wriggle, yet poised enough to act immediately when she heard the first sound.
Beside her, on the candle table, the lamp was turned down low and shaded on one side with a towel to prevent the light showing under the door. It was the best she could do to pretend to be asleep and yet still move quickly when she needed to.
Below, the drawing room clock chimed midnight. She knew that Solomon, alert at his post in the library, heard it too. This was the hour in which the murder had taken place, but she doubted this evening’s action would happen so early. Surely the murderer would give everyone time to fall asleep, however reluctantly.
She kept herself awake by thinking of Solomon, of the danger he was putting himself in for the sake of people he barely knew. This whole mystery, harrowing as it was, seemed to engross him. As if he had grasped it with both hands because it was new and different.
The clock below chimed one. Poor Owen was having a long wait, if he had managed to wake himself. Constance smothered a yawn and waited. And waited.
And then she heard it.
The faintest click of a door opening. She could not even tell from which direction it came, though after a few moments she made out the hushing sound of soft footsteps. She rose, her heart thundering, ready to follow when she could not be seen. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where the murderer was going.
Oh God, please look after Solomon Grey, who is a good man…
The faint footsteps didn’t fade. They stopped right outside her door. Now her heart twisted in fear. She was afraid to breathe.
Then came a scratch at the door. The same sound Solomon had made when he came here. Her stomach turned over, though whether in relief or a different kind of fear, she could not tell. What was he doing? Had the murderer confessed already, and she wasn’t even there to witness it?
She reached for the door, softly opened it a crack, and then wider.
No one was there.
Feeling behind her, she picked up the lamp, looking warily to each side. Then, hearing and seeing nothing, she stepped out into the passage. By the lamp’s glow, she saw at once that the door to the old wing of the house stood open.
*
Solomon woke with a start. Disoriented, he knew only that a noise, a threat, had roused him. What on earth had he been thinking of to fall asleep at such a time?
The plan rushed into his brain at the same time as he realized the library door was being pushed slowly open. A quick glance at the window on his other side showed him no one had entered that way or stood on the other side of the glass to shoot him. Hastily, he shoved one hand beneath the book and curled his fingers around the handle of the pistol. He had time to be grateful he hadn’t dropped the weapon to the floor, and then his visitor was inside.
The visitor carried a lamp held low, and at first all he could make out was skirts.
Constance? Fear for her clutched at his chest. But no, this woman did not move like Constance. Of course it was Alice Bolton—oddly enough, the weak link in the chain of her husband’s crime. She closed the door behind her and stood as though frozen, or perhaps just assessing him.
He didn’t stand up. He wanted to offer no threat. And he certainly didn’t want to scare her off with the sight of the pistol.
“Welcome,” he said quietly. “I knew one of you would come, but I confess I expected your husband.”
“My husband?” she said in a peculiar, startled voice. “Mr. Grey, are you quite well?”
She walked into the light of his lamp, and he saw his mistake.
Not Alice Bolton—Deborah Winsom.
*
In the passage, Constance hesitated. Why had Solomon deviated from the plan? He was obviously so eager to get to whatever he had learned about that he could not wait for her, merely showed her the way. Beyond the doorway, she could just make out a bobbing light within the old wing.
Eager to know what he had discovered, she snatched up her own lamp from inside her room and crept as quickly as she could along the passage and through the old door. Was she supposed to close it to prevent anyone following them? Or did it no longer matter?
She pulled it closed anyway.
She could no longer see Solomon’s light, only the bare walls and the badly repaired floor of the large chamber. She moved through it, shining the light on the floor to be sure where she stepped, and into the makeshift bedroom where Alice had met Walter. Nothing had changed, so far as she could see.
The door to the passage was open. Walking toward it, she glimpsed the moving light once more, near the staircase.
“Solomon!” she hissed. “Wait!”
He didn’t answer, but the light vanished. What was he playing at?
Her heart lurched. Had someone attacked him? Were they not alone here after all? Had they been tricked in turn?
She paused, listening intently. Nothing moved. If anyone else breathed, she didn’t hear them. Her lamp trembled as she held it higher and made out the open door of the small room at the head of the stairs.
She had barely noticed it the last time, beyond the fact that it was entirely empty. She went closer. Her lamp’s light flickered over the bare walls—and a pile of rags at the far corner that had certainly not been there before. It was terrifyingly body shaped.
Oh no… She sped toward it. Don’t be dead, don’t be dead…
She stopped hard once more, for she could see now that her imagination had been playing tricks. There was no body inside those rags.
A blow to her back sent her staggering forward. The floor beneath her feet gave way and she fell through the darkness. There was the shock of landing, staggering pain, and then only blackness.
*
“Mrs. Winsom,” Solomon said. Had he got everything horribly wrong? Everything, everything pointed to Bolton.
He rose to his feet, dexterously lifting book and blanket with him to hide the pistol.
“You seem surprised,” she said, moving toward him. She had changed from last night’s black evening gown into a simpler, less fashionable affair. She looked small and brave and entirely unthreatening. “I suppose I should be flattered.”
“What have you come to say to me?” he asked, feeling his way.
She set down her lamp on the nearest desk and took the chair opposite his. Oddly, she looked more serene than at any point since his arrival at Greenforth. And yet the lines of grief and worry remained, along with the puffiness and bruising around the eyes that spoke of too little sleep.
“I am responsible for my husband’s death.”
Even through the shock of his error, he acknowledged the odd phrasing.
She shuddered. “No, I did not stab him. But I know who did, and why. I am why.”
She lapsed into silence, her eyes distant, her expression one of misery.
“What happened?” Solomon asked.
His quiet voice seemed to drag her back to the present. She even smiled, without mirth or pleasure. “I fell in love.”
“With whom?” he asked. He was adjusting his theory, but not by much. He thought he knew.
“With my husband, a long time ago. Everyone did, of course. I was one of many, even then, but he chose me. I was so devoted that I accepted his infidelity as part of a wife’s lot in life. One does, you know. But one doesn’t always appreciate the hurt that builds and builds over the years, the weariness… And then came the ultimate betrayal.”
“Alice Bolton.”
“Alice, my friend. The wife of his friend, his partner.” She stopped talking again. Her fingers pleated and pinched at the fabric of her gown. “I suppose it was my fault. By all my tolerance and turning of blind eyes, he thought he could do anything he liked, and I would neither notice nor complain.”
“Did you?”
“Complain? No. I went to Thomas. I’ve known him almost as long as I’ve known my husband. He was a friend.”
“You told him?”
“Yes, I told him. The thing was, he already knew. People underestimate Thomas. They think he sees nothing but numbers. They’re wrong. And he was devoted to Alice. He would do anything for her. I went to their house one day, when I knew Walter was with her in town.” She smiled, this time with unexpected warmth. “I had never been drunk before.”
“You went when you were intoxicated?”
“Oh, no. I arrived stone-cold sober. We drank together, Thomas and me, and talked and talked. I wept, and he comforted me, and still we talked. I had always known Thomas’s was the brain behind their partnership, though a business needs the kind of charisma and confidence that Walter brought. On that day, I saw that Thomas was the quiet hero, responsible for all our prosperity, and yet he allowed Walter to take not only the credit but a higher proportion of the bank’s profits. He said that was because Walter put up the first money that founded the bank, but I think it was just his way. The money didn’t interest him. He wanted to see if he could do it, build their own successful bank.”
Her distant eyes came back into focus on Solomon. “He is strong, you know, much stronger than Walter, who always stole the limelight without trying. And yet I was so comfortable with Thomas… As I say, I fell in love. Again.”
“So while your husband was with Alice, you began an affair with her husband?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Deborah said, as though she had merely dropped something. “It just happened, and afterward, I was not remotely sorry.”
“It felt good to have your revenge on both of them.”
Annoyance flared in her eyes and then died. “Yes, probably it did. I don’t know how much was true emotion, and how much was vengeance. It doesn’t really matter.”
“So why am I at Greenforth?” he asked.
She blinked, then smiled. “I liked you. I wanted someone at this party who was genuinely interesting and attractive, unknown to any of the others. I wanted to show you off. You were my coup. A distraction, if you like, from the rampant adultery of the rest of us.”
“Someone to entertain the children?” he said sardonically.
“Perhaps. But then I found the earring in the spare bedroom, and I knew he was making love to her under our own roof. I don’t know why that should seem the ultimate betrayal. After all, he had made free with our parlor maids in the past. I would not risk the bank by flaunting my affair with Thomas in front of him. But I had no objection to flirting with you under his nose. It felt dangerous and exciting, and it took him by surprise.”
“It took me by surprise, too. Was I also to take the blame for your husband’s murder?”
Her eyes widened in shock. “Of course not! Walter’s murder was not part of the plan.”
“I beg to differ. The knife was taken from the kitchen one night and used the next. You and I both know who by.”
Tears sprang to her eyes and began to course down her cheeks. She didn’t seem to notice.
“He did it for me,” she whispered.
Abruptly, Solomon had had enough of the lies and deceit of this house, the excuses for every bad behavior and every crime.
“Rubbish,” he said flatly. “He did it because Walter found out he’d been doctoring the books and stealing from the bank to keep Alice in jewels.” The blank shock in her face was genuine, but he pressed his advantage ruthlessly. “You knew Bolton had murdered your husband, your children’s father, and you remained silent. Did you know he had freed the dog? Is that why you took me to the woods this afternoon?”
“No!” she gasped in outrage. Then she wriggled in her chair like a schoolgirl caught out in some misdemeanor. “Well, he told me we needed to scare you off because you and Mrs. Goldrich were poking your noses in everywhere and might lead the police to him. I was to take you to the center of the wood, the place the children used to play, but I didn’t know what he had intended, and I certainly didn’t know then he had freed Monster! The dog terrifies me.”
“But the dog didn’t find us by accident. And Bolton was with Randolph, not guiding Monster to us.”
“Thomas couldn’t guide the dog if his life depended on it,” she said. “But he’d been talking to Randolph. He knew where the dog went when it bolted, and he knew about the cave.” She licked her dry lips, and her voice dropped further. “He told me after you came home. He hid a sheep’s carcass in that cave. So he knew Monster would lurk there and guard it from us.”
“He wasn’t very careful of you, was he?”
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
“Is that why you’re confessing?”
She nodded. “Partly. I don’t want anyone else to die.”
Partly .
His breath caught. “Deborah, did he send you here?”
Her eyes flew open, stark and fearful. She was in a nightmare she didn’t seem able to wake herself from.
Constance .
He sprang to his feet, just as a soft knock sounded at the door and Owen the boot boy slunk in. His eyes were huge, his face white and scared and determined.
“Sir, she ain’t come down,” he blurted, totally ignoring his mistress. “And what’s more, there’s smoke in the house. I can smell it.”
*
Constance struggled into consciousness with a weird crackling in her ears and pain in her head. When she managed to open her eyes, everything was fuzzy like fog, with lights flickering wildly. It reminded her of the night she had first seen Solomon, when police lanterns pierced the misty darkness. But the face above her was not his.
Thomas Bolton stared down at her, his eyes glinting red in the flaring light. He stood quite still, something dangling from one hand—a club of some kind. Why did he need such a thing in—
“I fell,” she said stupidly. “I fell through the floor.”
“I pushed you.”
Of course he had. With the club. That was what he had jabbed into her back, casting her forward into darkness.
“Having previously taken the trouble to remove the floorboards,” he added. “You’re just too nosy, Mrs. Goldrich. You and your wealthy lover. I’ve done you a favor. You may die together, like Romeo and Juliet.”
Alarm jolted her brain back to work. Where is he?
She threw herself into a sitting position to see better, but immediately she choked and a searing pain sliced through her head. She let out a groan. Her whole body hurt and she couldn’t breathe for…smoke.
There was no mist, no fog, no flaring lanterns—only smoke and the crackle of flames leaping up the moth-eaten curtains and the bare, dry walls. He had set fire to the old wing.
“You’ll kill everyone!”
“No, no,” Bolton said. “I’m off to raise the alarm.”
“Wait!” she cried, grasping the fabric of his trouser leg. She had to make him stay a moment longer, come nearer, for she knew he would never take her with him. “You—not Alice— you killed Walter.”
He laughed, high and terrifying in the hell surrounding them. “You didn’t know! He doesn’t know either, does he? I suppose yours was a better trap than I thought.” He crouched down to look into her eyes. “But mine is better. I killed Walter, and though you don’t seem to quite know it yet, I’ve killed you and Grey too.” He leaned nearer, and even through the smoke she could smell his breath—beef and brandy, fear and excitement.
She clutched his arm, his shoulder. “You can’t leave me here to burn! You can’t!”
Her right hand found his coat pocket and delved, somehow still as lightly and easily as breathing. Old habits did indeed die hard. She was looking for a weapon. He had to have a weapon or he could not make her stay… But it was a key her fingers closed around.
He meant to lock her in.
She moaned, letting her right hand dangle by her side as if it was too injured in her fall.
“I can ,” he said almost euphorically. “I really can do anything. I took Walter’s money. I took Walter’s wife, and I took Walter’s life. Deborah will still lie for me, while Alice and I live in wealth and happiness.”
“Deborah?” she repeated, stunned.
“Who do you think will bring Grey here to save you? In just a few—”
Abruptly, the door to the main house flew open and the light flamed over Solomon. Bolton jumped to his feet and flew across the room so fast it was frightening. The club came down hard before Solomon would even have seen him for the smoke.
By then, Constance was crawling along the floor toward them, mostly because she wasn’t sure she could stand. Only then it came to her there was less smoke nearer the floor. She could actually see Solomon’s dark head quite still in front of her. Then she saw the lantern flying through the smoke above. For an instant, she thought it was Bolton fleeing up the staircase to leave by the upper door, but glass shattered on the wooden steps and they burst into flames. He had thrown an oil lamp.
Then the door slammed shut and Bolton was gone. Constance crawled on, gasping out, “Solomon! Sol—”
She found his hair, grasping it between her fingers. She must have tugged it hard, for he groaned.
“Oh thank God,” she muttered. “Solomon, we have to get out of here!”
“He’s locked us in.” Solomon reached up, grasping her hand. The heat was unbearable, the flames burning ever closer. “Help me up so I can break in the door or the window boards if I can. I’m sorry. I came to save you, but we might have run out of time.”
Constance thrust her hand in front of his face and opened her fingers.
Solomon stared at the key in her hand and laughed. The sound changed immediately to a choking gasp. She threw her arm around his shoulder and they staggered to the door.